


Life we lead

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, i'm trying to cope okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 02:59:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1966431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leo and Kun in the aftermath of the World Cup final</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life we lead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maiucha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiucha/gifts).



> I don't even know what this is, except an attempt to cope with Argentina's loss and the pain of seeing Kun cry.

 

The whistle blows, shrill and familiar, and the world falls into silence. Around him there are people screaming, howling in unfamiliar German, and underneath them is sobbing and whistles and grief, but his mind is quiet.

 

Leo goes to his teammates, squeezes shoulders and welcomes handshakes, all on autopilot. He avoids their eyes, red rimmed and clouded, avoids them because the night is still young and there are hours yet where his strength is needed.

 

Leo turns around and Kun is there.

 

Kun is there and he’s crying and Leo has never felt pain quite like this.

 

There’d been losses and disappointments measured in centimeters on a measuring board, but not this crushing weight of Kun’s grief, of his need.

 

An official taps his shoulder and it’s a relief to turn away, to assume the weight of a bigger duty. He turns from Kun and feels his disappointment, but there are things at stake more important than the two of them and they must be addressed first.

 

He leads his team up the steps to a cup he won’t get to lift and his thoughts are silent.

 

There are no celebrations on the bus back to the hotel. If anything, the air-conditioned interior is a relief from the cheers and cries, and they slump gratefully in their seats.

 

Leo can see Masche and Romero in the back, pressed up close, Masche’s face hidden in Romero’s shoulder, one big goalkeeper hand (strong hands, savior hands, powerless hands)pressed against his back to stop the trembling. Angel and Gago are seated further up front, facing different directions, but with their hands entwined. Pipita has his phone in his hand, texting someone. It’s probably Gabi. Everyone is sharing a seat with someone else, as if the shared space could make the pain easier.

 

Kun is practically radiating heat next to him and Leo doesn’t remember slipping into the seat next to him, but he must have, settled by memory of years of shared spaces. Kun’s leg keeps jiggling as if full of nervous energy. He reaches absentmindedly to cover it with his hand. Kun stills, breathing deep and even, and Leo has a weird moment of dissociation where he’s watching his hand on Kun’s knee and he wants to tighten the hold, feel the bones and muscles moving beneath his hands, something to remind him of how they’re both alive.

 

He doesn’t, of course, would never knowingly hurt Kun, even though he’s done it a lot over the years; with ill timed tackles or just by being himself when he needed to be someone else.

 

 

*

 

 

The hotel room slams shut behind them and Leo makes a beeline for the bathroom.

 

He’d showered before they left the stadium, but a splash of cold water brings him out of the trance he’d fallen into on the bus. He watches his reflection in the mirror. He looks tired and worn out. Old.

 

How long will it be until the commentators start calling him ‘experienced’ in belligerent tones, how long until someone calls him ‘too old for a forward’?

 

Maybe someone is saying that right now.

 

When he comes out of the bathroom, Kun is already in bed. His trainers are thrown carelessly on the floor and he hadn’t bothered changing, save for dropping his shorts. His back is turned to Leo and he spends a long moment watching him for the familiar rise and fall of his chest.

 

Leo looks between Kun and his own bed, hesitating.

 

There’d been countless hotel rooms just like this, never silent because Kun was never silent and never lonely because Kun never stopped pestering him. They’d stayed up after enforced curfews and spoke of their dreams in hushed, reverent whispers; of countless flags in white and blue, and familiar emblems on their chests, and the golden cup, always the golden cup, raised high above them.

 

Back then, it felt like dreams were all they had, but now? Now they had everything except dreams.

 

Leo slips under the sheets to settle behind Kun, throwing a hand around his waist to pull him closer, until they’re pressed up against each other. Kun is trembling and Leo presses his face against his back and breathes in. Kun smells like the deodorant they both use and a little bit like sweat and grass from the pitch. It’s achingly familiar and hopelessly comforting, and for the first time since the whistle blew, Leo lets the silence bleed away into tears.

 

 


End file.
